Valentine's Hunt
by babybluecas
Summary: Cas planned something special for Dean for the Valentine's Day. Turns out there might be ghosts that have other plans for them.


This year for Valentine's Day Cas didn't prepare anything too fancy. Dean's not a big fan of fancy, after all. So they are just gonna eat whatever dinner Dean cooks, followed by the best pecan pie in town. Then a cuddling session in front of the TV with a movie of Dean's choice.

Then, at last, there'll come the gift for Dean from his Valentine. The fragrance of scented oils and the warmth of candlelights filling the room, Cas's fingers working out the knots in Dean's muscles, the tension he always carries on his back. Sounds exactly like something Dean could use and appreciate. Hopefully, it won't turn into a greasy disaster.

Cas took the idea from the internet, one of the many—very many—lists of heartfelt gifts for the one that you love. He even practiced some massaging techniques with videos on YouTube. That paired with his knowledge of human anatomy and specifically of Dean's anatomy, should be perfectly pleasurable and relaxing for both of them.

And, knowing Dean, it has a potential to turn into something even more pleasurable and relaxing, which Cas is completely okay with.

Cas bought the candles—a whole box of them—and the oils during their case last week, has kept them carefully hidden since. The oils were a tough product to buy; as tiny as the store was, it had a wide choice of scents and Cas had no idea which Dean would enjoy and which he'd despise. He probably should have known that about him by now, but he doesn't, so he decided to buy as many as he could afford and hope for the best.

Turns out, the purchase was a complete waste of money. And Cas's plan was a complete waste of hopes for a quiet, romantic afternoon. They don't even get anywhere near the dinner part; Dean's not in the kitchen when Cas comes back with the pie, still warm, straight from the bakery. He's not in the main room, nor the library.

"Try hi— uh, your bedroom," Sam offers, never taking his eyes off the laptop's screen.

Cas furrows his brow and turns to the corridor. He knocks the door of their bedroom out of the habit and pushes them open.

Dean's not there, but on the bed, there's a different, dark shape. Cas feels for the light switch on the wall and as soon as the room goes bright, he wishes he never lit it in the first place. It's Cas's black suit—the nicer one—shirt, and even a blue tie, laid at the feet of their bed. On top of it, there's a contrasting piece of paper. Cas knows what's on it before he even lifts it.

Scribbled in Dean's hasty handwriting, the message goes:

 _We've got a case. Suit up and meet me in the garage. Details on the way._

Cas gives out a loud, frustrated growl and barely stops himself from kicking the bed, as illogical and fruitless as the reaction would be. He's not even angry about all the preparations that go to waste, or the box filled with fake chocolate, fake roots and other fragrances - those they can use at some other time. He's not angry about working case on Valentine's - Dean doesn't care for the occasion and neither should Cas.

He's just spent too much time on imagining Dean laying on top of their bed, half-naked, skin glistening with the oils, muscles loosening, one by one, under Cas's touch, hums of pleasure escaping his lips. How is he supposed to wait even a day longer for that, now?

But that's the job, isn't it? Ghost and monsters don't take breaks for Valentine's and people keep on dying. Cas shrugs his clothes off and puts on the FBI attire Dean prepared for him and the coat from the back of a chair, throws the last, longing look towards the bed, and runs for the garage.

* * *

Dean waits for him leaning back against the hood of the Impala, arms crossed on his chest. He's dressed in a suit, as well, topped with his black coat.

"Should I have brought something with me?" Cas asks, approaching. In the midst of his frustration and hurry, it didn't occur to him to fetch a gun, now he's feeling a little weird and naked without any weapon behind his belt.

Dean shakes his head. "Just your sexy self." He grins, pushing himself off the car and shifting toward its door. "I got everything we need."

Cas peeks inside the vehicle before deciding which handle to reach for.

"Is Sam not coming?"

"Sam's got a date," Dean informs, slipping behind the wheel. "It's Valentine's Day," he adds when Cas joins him inside, like he doesn't expect Cas to know that. "The day of lovers and all that."

"I'm aware of that," Cas says, hoping it came out as emotionless as he intended.

"Speaking of…" Dean reaches into the pocket of his coat, fishes out a small, red, heart-shaped lollipop and holds it out to Cas. He grins. "Will you be my Valentine?"

Surprised, Cas glances from the candy to Dean's bright face and back, a smile blooming on his lips.

"Of course," he says, accepting the lollipop. A blush creeps up his neck.

He half-expects Dean to turn red as well, but the man seems unabashed, eyes flicking from the exit he's steering them toward to Cas's fingers unwrapping the heart-shaped, heartfelt sweet.

"Great," he says. "Now let's go gank ourselves a ghost before it ganks anyone."

The sweet taste has nearly washed away from Cas's mouth by the time the Impala pulls up in a busy parking lot. The early night has caught to them on their way, as it happens on February evenings, but the pavement ahead is lit yellow by the street lamps. There's a long strip of stores and coffee shops stretched along, all open and blooming with life - the oases of warmth amongst the cold wind of winter.

"Which one?" Cas asks and follows the direction Dean's finger points to. A small restaurant at the near end of the street, detached from the rest of the locals. "There are people in there."

"Yeah, they're supposed to be there," Dean says. Cas must look confused because he rushes to explain. "No evac or anything, let's not get the owner go bankrupt."

Cas's eyebrows snap together. "So we're expected to keep everyone safe and ignorant in a haunted restaurant while we get the ghost angry at us?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Cas doesn't like that plan. It won't be easy and it doesn't make much sense anyway. Shouldn't evacuating the civilians be the first step, always? The owner won't have much of a business when people get killed in their local.

He doesn't point that out loud, though, as he follows Dean down the pavement. No one's dying tonight and that's on them. There's something else wrong with the plan, though.

"Weapons, Dean. We didn't take any."

"It's a ghost, Cas," Dean mutters, amused. "What are we gonna do? Shoot it in the face?"

Cas stops. "Yes. That's exactly what you do with ghosts." This isn't right. Dean's knows that. Dean's done that his entire life. "With rock salt."

There's something about the case Dean isn't telling him or something Cas is missing. That must be it. Otherwise, it's Dean. Cas takes a breath as Dean turns back to him. He studies his lover's face, searching for signs of— of something. He must be overstressed, overworked, exhausted. Maybe he just skipped his evening coffee.

But there's nothing on Dean's face, other than a soft smile, as he grabs Cas's palm and yanks him toward the door of the restaurant.

"Come on, Cas, we're gonna be late."

Their fingers remain interlocked as they walk through the door into the warmth of the local. Cas suppresses the worry in his stomach to the best of his abilities and follows Dean's lead. At least they don't play the FBI, so Cas doesn't have to say anything as they approach the hostess and check their coats.

"Winchester," Dean says when she asks for the name.

She ticks off something on her list and shows them their table.

"After you, babe," Dean mutters to Cas's ear, like he's made it his main goal this evening to keep Cas as red as the decorative hearts pinned to the walls.

It's a table for two, looking exactly the same as any other table they pass by, made with a white tablecloth and red napkins. There's a red rose in a vase, standing in the center, and two red candles burning on its both sides. If Cas were to take a shot at judging, he'd say it's as romantic as can be.

Cas reaches for the chair, but Dean hastily beats him to it and yanks the chair back. Cas raises an eyebrow at the man, but Dean, though a little unsure now, nods at him to sit, so he does.

"Sorry, I wasn't sure what's the etiquette for two guys," he admits, flustered, taking the seat opposite Cas, "so I kinda panicked."

"It's fine." Cas can't help a smile.

Cas takes a thorough look at their surroundings, while Dean accepts the menus from the waitress. There aren't many tables in their closest vicinity and they're all taken by completely self-absorbed couples, celebrating Valentine's. The localization is quite perfect, Dean must have booked the table in consult with the map of the place; they're seated far from the entryway and just by the kitchen door.

"So how are we going to get to the kitchen?" he whispers, leaning closer to Dean.

He doesn't even spare the menu a glance, unlike Dean, who's studying his so closely he doesn't seem to even hear Cas.

"Dean?"

"Huh?" Dean's eyes shoot to Cas.

"Should I make a ruckus and you'll slip in?" Cas asks, not very eager to become the center of attention. "Or do you have a better idea?"

The man's eyes narrow. "Slip in?"

Cas barely holds back a grunt. There's definitely something wrong going on with Dean.

"Through the kitchen, to the back with the EM—" he cuts off, closes his eyes, slowly, opens them again. "You did take the EMF meter, right?"

Dean's mouth forms a circle and now it's him who blinks at Cas a few times.

"Oh, you— you still think—" he blurts out. The rest of his words drown in his muffled laughter. He doesn't stop until Cas presents him a glare. "Sorry, man, I wasn't— I wasn't laughing at you, just—" he wipes away at his eye as if wiping off a tear—"you're so serious about this whole hunt."

"Yes," Cas begins, slowly, aware he's the butt of a joke here and finishing the sentence will only make it worse. He finishes it anyway. "Because hunts are a serious matter."

Dean presses knuckles to his grinning mouth. "They are, only there is no hunt here. No ghost."

Cas's shoulders slump as he sinks back into the chair. "You made it up," he says, crossing his arms.

Even the most innocent smile Dean can send his way won't soften Cas's pout.

"Why?" He narrows his eyes at him. "To make fun of me?" It comes out closer to a bark than a question. Surely the five seconds of chuckling wouldn't be worth all this trouble and missing what could have been Dean's best evening in a while— oh.

"What? No, Cas, of course not. Dude, it's—" And then Cas knows, before Dean finishes. "Just look around."

He doesn't have to look around; he knows it's all red heart and arrows and baby cherubs. It just had a hard time clicking with the whole idea of Dean bringing Cas in here voluntarily.

"It's Valentine's, babe," Dean announces as if they haven't established that a few times by now. Cas's cheeks still burn at the 'babe' part. The word still so foreign, coming from Dean's mouth when meant for Cas's ear. Even if it rolls off Dean's tongue so carelessly. "I just, I don't know," Dean continues, when Cas remains silent, "wanted to do it differently. Probably shouldn't have consulted the internet about it." He shrugs, nervously fingering the spine of the menu. "Bet you got really excited to gank that ghost."

Cas shakes his head in disbelief, rather than in negation. "So excited I'm disappointed we're going to eat rather than dig graves," he sarcs.

"I know, right?" Dean grins, eyes back on the menu. "What kind of date is it without getting dirty?"

* * *

"So she shoved the whole thing into the bag and ran like a bunch of wendigos chased her tail," Dean says, choking on his own laughter.

He's gotten a little red in the cheeks and has earned himself a few glares from nearby tables for his story to which he only lowered his volume for a moment.

"That was rude," Cas comments, between chuckles, not risking to put the rest of his pizza into his mouth before Dean's tale is done. "Did you follow her?"

Dean shrugs. "Nah. And haven't seen her since."

"How did your ego survive that?" Cas coats his throat, scratchy from laughing, with a sip of water.

"Hardly." Dean purses his lips for a second, before flashing all his teeth again. He wipes the remains of sauce off his plate and fills his mouth with the last bite. He clinks against Cas's glass of water with his fingernail. "Told you uh go' us a room," he mumbles around the food.

It's a hotel room, Dean said, nicer than Cas has ever slept in. But Cas isn't sure if they offer ten kinds of scented oils for massage. If they get back to the Bunker, there will still be a lot of time for that. And Cas hasn't given Dean anything yet.

"I know, but—" Cas licks his lip—"I'd rather go home. I mean, after we're done here."

Dean gives out a sigh. "Okay, if you're sure about this. I'm gonna have to cancel the reservation then." He pulls the phone out of his pocket. "How about you order something good for the dessert and I'll be right back."

He waits for Cas to nod before pushing his chair off. He doesn't even get to get up, though, when all of the electric lights in the restaurant flicker ominously.

Dean freezes. "That's probably just wires, right?" he tries.

"Yes, probably," Cas assures him, though they're both too familiar with this kind of power issues. But then, they're also too quick to jump to conclusions.

Dean waits a few seconds for another flicker. "Okay," he mutters when it doesn't come.

He lifts himself up. The lights go off and on again. A few patrons mutter quiet complaints to their partners. Dean sits back down.

"The hell?"

"Maybe you're sitting in its chair?" Cas offers, though judging by Dean's grimace, he's not being very helpful.

"How about I cancel the reservation later and just sit here, to be safe," he says, slipping the phone to Cas. "And you take care of googling."

* * *

There's a dull thump as Cas's shovel hits the wood of the coffin. He gives out a moan that's a mixture of relief and pain. There's still a ton of soil to dig out before they can open it.

"Tell me you're hundred percent sure it's the right ghost," Dean says, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving a dark smear of dirt in its wake.

"You tell me, Dean," Cas replies, shoving another load outside of the grave they're in.

Dean thrusts the shovel vertically into the soil, folds his arms on top of the handle. "I already told you ten times, I completely made up that hunt. This is a complete coincidence!" He throws his hand up in a hopeless gesture. "Or just our luck."

"Yeah, just our luck," Cas echoes, bending backward to stretch his spine.

He hasn't got as much practice in digging graves as Dean and his technique is far from perfect, which usually results in an inability to move for a day or two.

And to think they were supposed to be relaxing right now. Dean's back wasn't supposed to be arching over the dirt, muscles turning into stones as he works his way to the dead guy underneath their feet.

But then, with how things started going in the restaurant, they surely saved a few lives tonight. They couldn't avoid the evacuation, but as soon as the cupid's arrows started shooting through the air, everyone was more than happy to fold their cutlery and leave. The owner included.

At least locating the bones wasn't hard. No other deaths happened in the restaurant since its opening.

"Imagine choking to death on a bite of pie crust," Dean muses, prying the lid open, "that's like, the ultimate betrayal. I'd be pissed too."

Cas chuckles as he empties the can of fuel on the poor guy who just wanted to eat something sweet and ended up in a grave.

"Speaking of pie, there's pecan waiting for you in the Bunker. Since we didn't get to eat that dessert."

Dean's eyes widen, their irises dark in the moonlight. His mouth spreads wide in joy.

"You're the best, babe," he says, lighting a match.

As soon as it hits the coffin, the bones set ablaze, the flames burst up high, bathing them in an orange glow. The light brings out the sparkle in Dean's eyes as he leans closer to Cas, his palm wrapped in Cas's tie.

"Hey, flames—romantic," he cheers and presses his lips to Cas's.

His skin smells of the soil and sweat, his lips are soft and warm and salty.

"Needn't have bought all those candles," Cas mutters against them when they break for air.

"Candles?" Dean pulls away to look Cas in the eyes.

"You thought I didn't prepare anything for you?" Cas replies, reaching down for their tools. "Let's go home and you'll see."


End file.
